<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Skin, Touch, Feel by MissDavis</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672032">Skin, Touch, Feel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis'>MissDavis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Massage, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Quarantine, references to COVID-19, set during 2020 quarantine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:54:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,586</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672032</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock bounced the bottle of oil from hand to hand, then made himself still his fidgeting. He stepped up next to John's chair, hands behind his back, and spoke very quickly. "Molly says your job has been very stressful and that's why your shoulders hurt and that I should offer to give you a massage." He thumped the bottle down on the table next to John and took his hand back immediately, waiting to see if he had to pull on his armour and resume pretending he didn't feel things that way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Isolated Johnlock Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Skin, Touch, Feel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a quick fic between chapters of my WIP, so no beta or Brit-picking for this one! Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock stood outside Molly's flat, hoping that Rosie hadn't forgotten her umbrella at school again, because it was starting to rain and he wasn't too proud to be seen beneath a five-year-old's bright pink umbrella if it meant keeping his hair dry on their walk home. He was just about to lean on the doorbell again when the door opened and Molly looked up at him.</p><p>"Oh, Sherlock, hi. I thought John was picking her up today."</p><p>"He'd planned to, but as he's currently lying on the sofa beneath multiple ice packs, I volunteered to do the job instead." Sherlock pulled off his mask and took a step towards her so she would back up and let him into the flat. </p><p>"Oh, that's awful. What's wrong with him?" Molly held open the door, allowing him entry into the tiny foyer that opened into her kitchen.</p><p>"Nothing new," Sherlock replied, shoving his mask into his coat pocket as he pulled the door shut behind him. "Just his shoulders. Where's Rosie?"</p><p>"His shoulders?" Molly turned and shouted towards the living room. "Rosie, come on, get your school bag. Sherlock's here to take you home."</p><p>"His shoulders," Sherlock repeated, as Rosie came flying out into the kitchen, a tiny backpack festooned with unicorns dangling from one hand. "The left has always bothered him, at least since he was discharged from the army after being shot. And these last few months, he's had quite a lot of muscle pain in the right, as well."</p><p>"Oh, he must be stressed and tense from his job, right?"</p><p>"Yes, I imagine so." To be honest, Sherlock didn't know how John had managed to keep himself together since March, going to work each day even as the rest of the world hunkered down at home, trying his best to treat and reassure patients while protecting his own health. It hadn't got any easier, lately—restrictions had lifted since the spring, but he was still putting himself at risk each day, and now there was the added burden of Rosie attending her first year of school. Despite his reputation for not caring, Sherlock had been helping as much as he could—having John and Rosie living back at Baker Street made that possible, and thank God for Molly, who stepped in to mind Rosie after school twice a week.</p><p>Now she caught Rosie by the shoulders before she could launch herself into Sherlock's legs. "Sweetie, your lunch box was in that bag when you got here. Go find it, and you left your crayons and colouring sheets on the coffee table." </p><p>Rosie dropped the book bag onto the floor, turned and ran back out of the kitchen, her sock-clad feet skidding on the wooden floor. </p><p>Molly picked up the book bag and set it on the kitchen table. "You should give John a massage."</p><p>"Hmm—oh. Yes, that might help with the pain, but he'd probably say he's too busy or doesn't want to risk more exposure by scheduling an unnecessary appointment. Are massage therapists even open right now?"</p><p>"No, Sherlock. That's not what I mean." Molly unzipped the book bag and fished out several crumpled papers—the school was supposed to be paperless this year, but the message clearly hadn't made its way down to Rosie's classroom. "I don't mean send him for a massage. Give him one." She lifted her hands in the air and curled them in what he supposed was a crude imitation of rubbing someone's shoulders. </p><p>"I—" Sherlock faltered at the thought. <em>Give John a massage.</em> He forced his face to do something that he hoped was a nonchalant smile. "I don't think that's something John would want. From me." </p><p>"Sherlock." Molly sighed and put the palms of her hands flat on the table, leaning her weight forward towards him. "Make him an offer, at least. If you're willing. He'll accept. Trust me."</p><p>Sherlock stared at her, his mind threatening to short circuit, which he couldn't afford to let happen right now. "Rosie!" he called, without taking his eyes off Molly, and Rosie came running back into the room, trailing more crumpled papers and empty wrappers from her lunch box behind her.</p><p>He took the book bag from the table and crouched down to Rosie's level. "Come on, let's pack up all your things so we can go home and see Daddy. Did you have a good day at school?"</p><p>"Mm-hmm. I drew lots of pictures and ate cheese and apples."</p><p>"Four more cases in the building since Monday," Molly said.</p><p>"Did you remember to wear your mask?"</p><p>"Yes. Livvy has a rainbow mask and I want one like that."</p><p>"Well, we'll see what we can do." He stood up. As long as she didn't decide to trade masks with Livvy or any of the other children in her class. Four more cases in three days. Maybe John should reconsider having her in school this year. Not that Sherlock wanted to be responsible for educating a five-year-old while John was at work, but he could do it if he had to. He certainly wasn't leaving the flat for cases very often, and solving crime via Zoom meeting was less than fulfilling, even if it paid the same. </p><p>"Oh, hang on. Her water bottle." Molly left the kitchen and returned a moment later, holding a metal bottle decorated with anatomically impossible puppies in one hand. "Oh, and take this, too, Sherlock. Hopefully John won't mind the scent." She held out another, smaller bottle, made of translucent brown plastic, just slightly larger than her hand. </p><p>Sherlock frowned and made no move to accept it from her.</p><p>"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock. Just take it." She moved across the kitchen and yanked open one of the drawers, then pulled out a zippered plastic bag. "Here. You can put it in your coat and it won't leak on you. Just ask him. Okay?" </p><p>"I—" He looked down at Rosie, who had managed to shove most of her belongings into her bag. "Are you ready, then? Let's get going."</p><p>"Sherlock, I'm not wearing any shoes!"</p><p>He blinked down at her to see that she was still wearing nothing but socks. He spied her rain boots by the door and helped her get her feet into them—usually she could manage on her own, but he wanted to leave as quickly as possible before Molly made this any more awkward.</p><p>"She left her trainers at school," Molly said, and handed him the plastic bag containing the small bottle of massage oil. "I don't need that back. Let me know how it goes."</p><p>"Yes. Perhaps. I—thank you for watching Rosie," he said, and was grateful when she didn't point out how inane that sounded, given that she watched Rosie after school every Wednesday and Friday and he had never thanked her before. "Come on, Rosie, let's go. Daddy is waiting for us. Put your mask on."</p><p>"Can we get pizza?"</p><p>"Yes, let's do that. Good-bye, Molly. We'll see you next week." He handed Rosie the tiny umbrella that was leaning next to the door and scooped her up into his arms so they both would be covered from the rain. By the time they were home at Baker Street with a pizza and fizzy drinks, Sherlock had nearly managed to make himself forget about the bottle of oil and Molly's suggestion. He left it in his coat pocket, hung at the bottom of the stairs, and didn't think of it again until hours later, after Rosie was in bed and he himself was beginning to feel drowsy.</p><p>John was still up—he'd been napping when Sherlock got home with Rosie, and now sat in his armchair by the fireplace, a scowl on his face as he stared down at his tablet. Sherlock set down the magazine he'd been reading and took a careful look at him, taking in as many details as he could without staring so obviously that John would notice. Which was quite easy, given that John's observational skills had not noticeably improved in the decade that they'd known each other.</p><p>After a moment of surveillance, Sherlock could see that John had enjoyed the pizza, despite the touch of heartburn eating three slices had given him. He had been pleased that he hadn't had to make dinner for the three of them, and his shoulders were bothering him less after his nap on the sofa with the ice packs. But now his mood was starting to sour again, as he scrolled through page after page of news stories, none of them good. And his shoulders were beginning to inch up towards his ears, a sure recipe for more pain. Sherlock debated saying something to him. He could suggest that John try to relax his posture as he sat in his armchair reading. Or....</p><p>He stood up from his chair, the sleepy feeling he'd had a moment ago entirely gone, replaced by an almost giddy sense of daring. John glanced up only briefly before looking back down at whatever horror story of national or international import he was currently reading. "You going to bed, then?"</p><p>"Not just yet," Sherlock replied. "I have to, erm—I forgot something. Be right back."</p><p>"Mmm." John wasn't paying any attention to him. If he was going to do it, it should be now. If he waited too long and John went upstairs to the rooms he shared with Rosie, it would be too late, and who knew when another chance would present itself. If indeed this was a chance and not just some fanciful delusion planted and encouraged by Molly. </p><p>He went down the stairs two at a time, his regular pace, then paused when he got to the hook holding his coat. Massage oil. For him to use. On John. Ridiculous. It implied that John would be shirtless in front of him, for one thing, and that in itself was nothing but fantasy. Still. Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed the small bottle from his coat pocket and ran back up the stairs.  </p><p>His courage tried to flee as soon as he was back in the flat, but he steeled himself. Danger was what he and John both thrived on, wasn't it? Even now. He slipped the bottle from its protective plastic, letting the bag drift to the floor. John didn't turn around, still absorbed in his tablet. </p><p>Sherlock bounced the bottle of oil from hand to hand, then made himself still his fidgeting. He stepped up next to John's chair, hands behind his back, and spoke very quickly. "Molly says your job has been very stressful and that's why your shoulders hurt and that I should offer to give you a massage." He thumped the bottle down on the table next to John and took his hand back immediately, waiting to see if he had to pull on his armour and resume pretending he didn't feel things that way.</p><p>John lowered the tablet and twisted in his chair to look at him. He glanced at the bottle before returning his gaze to Sherlock's face. "Molly said that?"</p><p>"Yes. Molly Hooper."</p><p>John's face eased into a grin. "Yes. I assumed that's the Molly you were referring to. And she gave you this?" He set his tablet down on the little table and picked up the bottle of oil. </p><p>"Yes. She apologised for the scent." Sherlock felt a sudden surge of gratitude that the label on the bottle touted its benefits as stress-relieving rather than sensual. </p><p>"Rose and lavender," John read from the bottle. "Those are good scents." He brought it up to his nose and sniffed it, though with the cap still on, Sherlock doubted he could smell very much. After a moment, John put the bottle down and looked up at Sherlock again. He didn't say anything else, though his face broadcast a lifetime of unanswered questions.</p><p>Sherlock made himself breathe evenly, hoped his voice didn't break. It didn't. "If it's something you'd be interested in, I'm willing."</p><p>"I see," John replied. "I think—" His lips pursed and Sherlock thought it was over, but then his tongue darted out from between them and he nodded. "That might feel good. I didn't know you...." He paused. "Knew how to give a massage."</p><p>How hard could it be? Sherlock kept his face impassive. "I've always been good with my hands," he said, then made the same ridiculous motion in the air that Molly had done earlier. Idiot. And what a stupid thing to say. He had no idea how to give a massage. Why hadn't he thought to Google it before he'd suggested this to John? </p><p>John's smile was wider now, and seeing it directed at him in this context made Sherlock's head swim. He couldn't look him directly in the face, for fear that John would see what he'd hidden for so long. But this—a massage—this was good. Only a small taste of what Sherlock truly longed for, but better than nothing at all. Wasn't it?</p><p>John stood up, rolling his neck and each shoulder in turn, and began to unbutton his shirt. </p><p>Sherlock swallowed and made himself turn away. "Ah, where would you like to—</p><p>John glanced around the room and then pointed. "I'll sit in that chair and lean on the desk. Since we don't have a massage table handy."</p><p>"Right." Sherlock forced away the image of John's whole body stretched out on a leather-padded table and picked up the bottle of oil, which seemed slipperier than he recalled it having been a few seconds ago—his hands were sweating now. </p><p>He turned back to see John pulling his vest over his head, the tight cotton twisting and stretching with his movements. Beautiful. John seemed perfectly comfortable undressing in front of him, apparently unaware of what he looked like, and how it was affecting Sherlock. Carefully, Sherlock let himself wallow in it, this rare, freely given glimpse of bare flesh. John's torso was lean and firm, not overly muscular but very well-formed for a man close to 50. The light in the room was too dim for Sherlock to tell if the dusting of pale hair across his chest was blond or grey; it tapered off to nothing mid-torso, then reappeared as a suggestion of fuzz that disappeared beneath his waistband. Oh, God. How did Sherlock expect himself to survive?</p><p>Focus on the matter at hand. John's shoulders. The scar high on his left was small, just a dark, puckered spot on the front of the shoulder, with no trace of an exit wound behind it. Even after a decade, Sherlock still didn't know if the bullet had been removed or was still inside him, splintered into shrapnel too complicated to remove without causing more damage. Maybe that was why his shoulder ached; perhaps his muscles still strained against the foreign objects embedded in them. Sherlock didn't ask and John didn't volunteer.</p><p>John pulled out the wooden chair and spun it around so its back was against the desk and then sat down in it, facing away from Sherlock. "Hand me a pillow, would you?" Sherlock did, and John put it on the desk so he could rest his forehead on it, letting his arms fall loosely to the sides of his body. "How's this?"</p><p>Sherlock couldn't resist any longer. He put his right hand out, touching John's bare shoulder, and pretended he was testing the position. John's skin was cool and smooth, the muscles beneath it knotted with palpable tension. He cleared his throat. "Ah, it's fine. You're at a good height for me. If you're comfortable."</p><p>"All right." John wriggled a bit in the chair, then stilled. "Go ahead."</p><p>"Yes." Sherlock stepped back to grab the bottle of oil and squeezed some of it into his left hand. Perhaps he should have attempted to warm the oil beforehand, but it was too late now. "It's cold," he said softly, and put both his hands on John's body. </p><p>John moved minutely beneath his touch—not a flinch but a settling in. To begin, then. He gave an experimental stroke, fingers and thumbs moving towards each other across the ridge of John's shoulders, and now John did flinch, curving his chest forward against the chair. Too hard. Sherlock adjusted accordingly, trying again with less force, gliding his thumbs outward along the thick muscles, feeling how the left side was much tighter than the right. John's shoulders sunk once more, and Sherlock knew he had found the right pressure. He continued, coaxing the thin oil over John's skin, feeling it warm with each stroke of his fingers. "Is this...is this okay?"</p><p>"Yes. Keep going. Like that," John replied, without lifting his head, and Sherlock kept going, unsure if he'd actually be able to loosen the knots he felt, but counting himself lucky that he got to try. He'd remember every moment of this for the rest of his life, even if it was the only time he was ever permitted to touch John's bare skin. And if he did do a good job, not only would John feel better, perhaps he would allow Sherlock to do it again. </p><p>He spent a few minutes working both his hands in tandem, growing more confident with each pass of his fingers and each small sigh John let out as his body grew more and more pliant. Sherlock combed through his mind palace in search of any scrap of massaging knowledge he may have unwittingly retained. Long, slow strokes, small circles with his thumbs, targeted pressure in the spots that seemed most tight. When it became clear that John's right shoulder needed less attention than the left, he switched both hands to the left only, kneading softly at the largest knot he found there. He'd expected to need to use more oil, but whatever Molly had given him worked well and John's skin stayed supple but not too slick beneath his hands. The scent was noticeable but not overpowering, and didn't register as too feminine to his nose, which is what he had initially feared.</p><p>Sherlock paused for a moment to stretch his fingers, dismayed to find them beginning to ache after only a few minutes of work. </p><p>His face still buried in the pillow on the desk, John tipped his head from side to side, stretching his neck, then sat up, reaching his left hand over his own shoulder to feel the muscle that Sherlock had been trying to loosen. "That's a lot better already," he said. "I don't know how much more you can do. It's the tendon, not just the muscle. It gets inflamed, even though I don't do anything too repetitive with my arm. I think it's just always been weak from—" He dropped his hand lower to touch the old bullet wound. "Just something I have to live with, I guess." He shifted his position on the chair, moving his shoulder up and down a few times, and tipping his head to the side until his neck made an audible popping noise.</p><p>Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Are you okay?" </p><p>"Yeah, yeah. It does that sometimes. Doesn't hurt. Should probably see a chiropractor or do some of my old physio exercises, but—" He shrugged and turned around so he sat in the right direction on the chair, and looked up at Sherlock, a soft grin on his face. "I've got you, instead."</p><p>Sherlock smiled back at him, scanning rapidly through his memory of every other smile John had ever directed at him to see if this one was new. It was. Was it? Or had he just never known what he was looking for? </p><p>John dropped his gaze after a moment, rubbing absentmindedly at the flesh a couple of inches below his collarbone, just next to the scar. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to brush his hand away and replace it with his own; he wanted to leaned down and press his lips to the scar; he wanted to glide his mouth across John's chest. This had been a terrible idea. The worst. What had Molly been thinking? And why had he ever listened to her?</p><p>"Sherlock, thank you," John said. "It does feel a lot better than it did, and I know your hands must be sore. But—"</p><p>"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just wanted to help you." John must have seen the look on his face, the longing, the want. "I didn't mean to overstep."</p><p>"No. No, you didn't." John shook his head. "That's not what I was going to say."</p><p>"I was going to say...." John stopped again, and took a deep breath. "I was going to say that I enjoyed it, and, if you were willing, if you wanted to, we could...continue. To touch each other. As much or as little as you'd like."</p><p>Sherlock stood very still, replaying the words John had said, turning them over and around in his mind to see if he was misinterpreting or hallucinating or—</p><p>"Sherlock?"</p><p>Sherlock raised his head, hoping no more than a few seconds had passed. John was on his feet now, in front of him, and still smiling. John was smiling at him, with his shirt off and his shoulders slightly glistening with oil as he stood in the middle of their flat. He was smiling at him, and waiting for an answer. </p><p>Sherlock gave him his answer. "Yes. John. I want to. I want to. Come here."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you enjoyed this, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&amp;commit=Sort+and+Filter&amp;work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&amp;work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&amp;work_search%5Bquery%5D=&amp;work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&amp;user_id=MissDavis">check out my other works</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis">subscribe to me as an author</a>! Thanks!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>